Archive for May 2015

17/05/2015

Take
your fucking fedora off you are not a Jones.
Kid, leave the captain's hat on, gods know you're going it need now,

those
waves are knee dip and those rip-tides drag:

lay
flat across the hull in dreams of concrete and something a little more
stable

until
someone takes over,

guides
you back home to the lit terraces,

glowing
apartment advent calendar,

lighthouses
of cushions

and
the sofa just how you left it.

Within
simple pleasures sleep intricate tasks,

curled
up dogs at the foot of fires:

someone
please tell them their Dalmatian died whilst they were on holiday,
he was
below
the radiator in the spare playground.

Am
I a weak man? it asked the black marble glare of the corner skirting board
joint.

Am
I meant to feel like that gasp after a slow kiss? that come back for more
Godfather Part Two
again,
Lord of the Rings:
Return of the King,
rumble string of
motorcycle parade through tarmac and your core
sat crossed legged on
any first school floor.

AM
morning calls to vets,

stumble
for words and

over
the abbreviations,

the IAADP
have got your back in case Gandalf ever witnesses your blinding,

forever
led forth by a lead and little more faith in something worth confessing over.

08/05/2015

The bullet was meant for you,
not the mule,
now we're stuck here carrying our own stuff
up the hill.

This guilt is heavy,
and I’m still using the perks of your premium account
to satisfy my most basic of needs,
and I'd like to tell you I stole a hoard of Ya-ba for you,
left it behind the bins for ya'
next to the parcels Royal Mail left for you,
your designated safe spot:
driver, drive me home,
take the scenic route back.

I think I thought I knew you on a
cellular level,
but then the 4g dropped out
and I was left to wait by your Western Wall,
queuing up to use it for a local phone call to a God,
quarter and cut
by the string lines that make up our tin-can connection,
the West Bank murals opposite
the story of how it should turn out.

What I'd like to say to the moral high
ground men at the moment is:
swap a day of feeling sorry for yourself for a chance you might hear a song
that starts with a Wurlitzer,
swap your gum for something sweeter, you compulsive ruminator in the tumour
mill
waiting to find out it's all for nothing.

Tell your partners they needn't ever
say,You look tired, babe

I'm scared for your wealth,no more,tell 'em there's more to money,like Jacuzzis and

01/05/2015

Coldplay
would've been better, but I should be so lucky-
and the rising water in the Titanic's engine room of noise
rose to a First Class stateroom chatter and Kate Winslet
and the queue to the bar grew a little longer

and
then
you
walked
in
like
a
Sunday
morning
walk,

one
long stroll by a river edge or lake side,
through a Westfield, Bluewater Meadowhall

in
one long rehearsed map move entrance
dodging standing drinkers and their plus ones in Zara trench
coats and Boden shawls,
and you left a wake of wet forest and crumbling beachhead afternoons
behind you as youwalkedonthroughthecrowd

to
the pool table at the back where you watched
pot after pot
after pint
after pot
after we need more one pound coins
to play more pool,
and you went out for fags though you don't smoke yourself

and
you looked up into the mist because you're the kind that would find New York
Stuart Little big: